What Happens After
by UmLikeYeah
Summary: Arthur's POV, post movie.  This isn't a sequel to my other story, Possible Possibilities, but it picks up where the other ended.  There are significant personality differences in this version's Arthur - he's more dark and twisty and he's got a secret...
1. Only Slightly Rearranged

**What Happens After**

New story up! Arthur's POV, post-movie. This isn't a sequel to Possible Possibilities, although it does sort of begin where that story ends. But if you have read Possible Possibilities, I believe you will find there are significant personality differences in this version's Arthur. Warning: He's a bit more dark and twisty here. Anyway, I hope you enjoy nonetheless!

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**Chapter One: Only Slightly Rearranged**

_Many of us crucify ourselves between two thieves - regret for the past and fear of the future._

_-Fulton Oursler_

She is kissing me. I want to jerk her closer, wrap her hair around my hand and go deep. I pull away. But here's where the dream goes awry. Ariadne never does what I expect; instead of backing off, she makes a little growl in her throat and grabs me by the collar of my jacket. I am abruptly yanked back onto her mouth. Our eyes lock, even as lips and tongue are colliding. I don't know why I'm fighting myself and a person only has so much self control. My eyes close and I do exactly what's been dancing in my imagination since I don't know for how long. Something inside of me is ringing - a screaming train whistle. _You keep this up and you're not going to want to stop._ That seems to put everything into perspective. I disentangle myself from her; her body heat is a sheer veil which slowly falls off me. "This could get complicated."

She is examining me. I've seen her do this before - where she studies an object and the gears and cogs in her brain are grinding while she breaks everything down into its basic components. I don't move under her scrutiny. "The way I see it, the complications just sorted themselves out." The way her eyes are moving, I know she is processing out loud. It becomes apparent the moment everything snaps into place - that's when she's focused on me again. "You mean your own complications." She takes a step back. I hate when she does that. This time, though, she's right to distance herself.

"I wish that weren't the case." It's the truth, however useless that is for her.

"What about before, in the dream?"

As gently as I can, I say, "You looked anxious. I was trying to lighten the mood for you." That is not the full truth but that won't make her feel any better either.

"I see." She doesn't, but I can't elaborate. Her hand raises but it falls away before I can do anything. "We'll just attribute what happened five minutes ago to... what? A way of letting off steam?" She's biting her bottom lip - and I wish it were me doing that.

She is waiting for a response from me but all I can manage is a slow nod of my head.

"I guess this is a good bye then, Arthur."

The thing is, I want to tell her. Because a part of me hopes that I'm wrong, a part of me hopes that maybe I can take the risk. But every time I think about it, I can't. I won't put her life in danger - it sounds melodramatic but she deserves better. She deserves to live her life normally and if I'm involved, it will just continue to be a three ring circus. A circus that is always waiting for me, always lying behind corners. "Good bye, Ariadne." I won't disrespect her with any disingenuous displays of emotion. And I couldn't manage a smile anyway.

She blinks once, twice. Then I see the back of her head and she's disappearing into a taxi. She doesn't turn to look back at me once.

A hand slaps me on the back. "Aren't you the noble."

"It's better this way."

"Sure, sure." Eames is picking up one of my bags - the lighter one - and he gestures for a taxi. "Hence, the bit about being noble. Well, what are you waiting for? Lucy and her pot roast are waiting."

There are times when he is a louse, a prankster, and completely self-involved. But there are also those times when Eames is quite capable of being kind. Lucky for me, those moments are rare. I follow him into the cab and the car takes off, headed towards an L.A. suburb. Southern California lives up to its reputation - it is sunny and warm. It's been years since I have been here for more than transitory reasons of waiting to catch a transfer flight out of LAX. If it were up to me, I would personally press the button to activate the fault lines and watch the ocean swallow the city up.

We pull up in front of a house with a neatly manicured yard complete with a miniature windmill and white window shutters. Before we're even out of the car, a pretty woman is opening the front door. She's wearing an apron that could easily come from the set of a 1950's TV show. Eames gives her an appreciative once-over. "Hello, honey. I'm home." He drops his bags at the sidewalk and walks up to her. I avert my eyes as they kiss.

I pay the driver, and pull the rest of the bags and luggage out. As I walk up to them, still embracing, I hear Lucy murmur, "I knew you'd like the apron."

"And like the perfect little housewife, did you make enough of my pot roast in case I brought home unexpected guests?"

She rolls her eyes as they pull apart and he pats her backside. "The apron's as close as I got to indulging in your Donna Reed fantasy. Hello, Arthur. It's been awhile. You look tired."

Underneath the apron, she's wearing jeans and a t-shirt. We hug. "Hello, Lucy. You look lovely, as usual."

Inside, the house is as cozy as the outside looks. There are brightly patched quilts thrown across overstuffed chairs and couch, richly colored drapery adorning the windows, a kitchen made out of blue and white tiles with a pine-topped island. There are potted plants and framed prints everywhere. At the mantelpiece, I look at the photos she's placed along the shelf. There's one of her and Eames on some tropical island. "I can't believe this is the same house. You've done a great job with it."

"No thanks to me, you mean." Eames settles himself onto a stool at the island. He sniffs at the contents under the pizza box. "My favorite kind of pot roast."

"You're in an exceptionally good mood. I trust that means the job went well?" She bats his hand away and places a slice on a plate before handing it to me.

Eames looks over at me, eyebrow raised. "What'd you say, old chap? Will tonight's dinner be grilled porterhouse or leftover pizza?"

Lucy throws her arms up in the air and then around Eames' neck when she sees the expression on my face. "This isn't any time for you to be resting on your laurels, buddy. Go to the market and pick us up some nice, juicy steaks for tonight." She ignores his useless protestations about his laurels barely having had a break. "Arthur, make yourself comfortable - let me just get the guest room ready. No buts. I insist you stay here tonight."

Eames gets up and leaves, grumbling but willing. As soon as we hear the car start, and Lucy finishes preparing the guest room, she offers me a can of soda from the refrigerator. I take a sip. "Why weren't you in Mombasa?"

"Because I'm a grown-up with a regular job. I can't run away to Kenya on a moment's notice." She says this as she begins chopping carrots.

I sit back. "You're taking it in stride. Him disappearing for months."

She smiles. "Am I? Perhaps you might not have said so had you heard me when he called to tell me he'd landed safely. And then me again, when he told me he was headed to Paris, then Australia. 'On a gig, love.'" She says this last sentence with her hands making quotation signs. She mimics his accent perfectly.

"How frequently does he do this? And why do you put up with it?"

"He's not doing anything he didn't warn me about. No need to get on your white horse for this cause, Arthur." I choke a little and she casually tosses me a kitchen towel.

"I... I wasn't..."

"What's going on? You're usually not so inquisitive about my personal life." She tilts her head; there is a gleam in her eyes. "Did something happen on the job?"

I'm looking at my plate of pizza. The weight of her stare is drilling itself on my crown. I take a bite, chew the pieces carefully and swallow before I lift my head again. "What normally happens on a job? Complications."

"Girly complications?" She claps her hands together and laughs at my silence. "He may be gone for months at a time, but he calls. He calls all the time. So tell me about this new architect."

I grimace and push away. "I'd rather not. And it's apparent you know all about her anyway." Her eyes follow me as I make my way into the guest bedroom.

"Arthur." I turn around. She fits in neatly in with her tiled kitchen, the copper cookware, the ferns and herbs springing out of terra cotta pots. "Are you going to go see her?"

It's funny; I've just spent ten hours sleeping but exhaustion is setting in. I'm tired of fighting and running and keeping my head above water. I want to crash, and, I want Ariadne. But both are impossibilities. "You know the answer to that too. Yes, of course, I'll go. I always do, don't I?" She doesn't try to stop me any further from getting to the guest room; it takes me a long time to unloosen my tie, take off my shirt and strip down to my boxer shorts. When I finally lie down on the bed and pull the covers over me, my eyes refuse to shutter.

I jerk awake, and I'm surrounded by darkness. My totem is on the nightstand, but I ignore it. It takes me a moment but eventually, my heart stops racing when I hear the electronic buzz of music spilling out from speakers outside and then another moment to realize that it's P.M. and not A.M. It's still the same day. I'm groggy and my head hurts - not a good combination to face Eames in. As soon as I'm dressed, I follow my nose out to the scent of coal and marinated steak in the backyard. "Arthur, my boy, you're up just in time. I hope you like your steak rare." He is standing over the barbecue grill, wearing the ridiculous apron from earlier and holding a pair of metal tongs in one hand.

"I'm sorry. I won't be able to stay for dinner."

Both of them pause in their activities. Lucy is in the middle of scooping salad onto a third bowl. She swings her gaze to Eames before they focus back on me. "Sudden decision, isn't it, mate. You sure?"

I nod, as I shrug into my suit jacket. "I've got some errands to run. May I borrow your car?" There's a jingle and a spark of light in the air; the car keys are suddenly in my hand. "Thanks. I may be awhile."

Eames calls out as I leave, "Do you know how to get there? From here?"

I almost want to laugh, but I don't. I know every car route to get to my destination from every major city across the country. I've studied them until they are mentally tattooed across my brain. And here is easy - the curve of roads are immeasurably familiar, etched in my memory in a way that staring at an atlas can never accomplish. That's the problem. "Yeah. I'll be fine. See you later."

I'm on the Pacific Coast Highway and though I can't see much, the salt air is strong. It brings back memories of building sandcastles, which then brings further memories of my first fumbling attempts at surfing, and late bonfire parties, where the ocean scent is tinged with alcohol and burning marshmallows. The radio comes on with a quick push of the button; some tinny, electronic music propels outward and mingles with the smell. I hate everything about it - it's every bad song ever written, sung in the same chords only slightly rearranged. It's perfect for the mood I'm in and I spend the remainder of the twenty minutes of my drive, thinking about how much I hate pop music.

The building I pull up in front of is brick with wheelchair access next to the stairs. There's a sign in etched gold leaf above the door: Thousand Oaks Center. It takes me nearly fifteen minutes after parking before I actually leave the car. Visiting hours are over, but I walk up to the man sitting behind the reception desk anyway. I give him my name, and, sure enough, I'm allowed upstairs, to one of the rooms. Nothing about this place has changed - it still has the same antiseptic smell, the same dulling of noise - my footsteps become muted as they slap against the linoleum floor, the same empty echo that manages to be vast and cramped all at once. The light to the room is still on and so is the TV. She's curled on the small couch, a blanket thrown over the lower half of her body. There's a half-full bowl of popcorn on the coffee table in front of her. Nothing's changed - she's beautiful with her hair curling over her terrycloth bathrobe and her eyes are wide and focused on the TV screen; they are a shade I'll never forget. It takes a moment before she notices me and the smile she gives me makes my heart constrict.

She tosses the blanket aside, sits up. "Arthur." Her voice is at clear as it ever was. Does she still sing?

I'm at her side before she has a chance to do anything else. I place her hand in mine. "Paige." I bury my nose in her hair; it smells sweet like candy at a street festival, but what assaults me are marshmallows and alcohol and the smell of burning wood.

And just like that, reality sinks in.


	2. There's Always a Connection

What's up with Arthur? Who exactly is Paige? Read on to find out some more!

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**Chapter Two: There's Always a Connection**

_It is his restraint that is honorable to a person, not their liberty._

_- John Ruskin_

"Arthur." She stands in front of me, hair neatly coiffed and makeup in place. It doesn't matter how long it's been since I've last seen her; she still makes me feel like a little boy with dirt smudges on my school uniform.

"Mother." It takes her a second before she moves aside from the front door and her arm drops down from the edge, the diamond on her engagement band twinkling against another beautiful Californian day. She raises an eyebrow when I don't enter immediately. I square my shoulders before going inside her house.

"You're lucky your unexpected visit came now; five minutes later and the maid would have been all that greeted you." She leads me into the living room. "Would you like anything to drink?"

"No, thank you." I stand in front of the screened porch, which leads directly into the backyard and the pool. Most of Los Angeles lies stretched out before me. It's a view I used to love.

"Well, then. What brings you back here, after all this time?"

I turn back and face the interior of the house. "Work."

She makes a polite sound. "And how long will you be staying?"

"Not long. I'll probably fly out in a few days' time."

"Hm. I see. I'm honored you made time for me. Your brother and his family were here only a few days ago. I'm sure he would have extended his trip had he known you would be in the area too."

It's been years since I've seen Daniel either. "I'm sure." The feeling is mutual. "I saw Paige last night."

My mother purses her lips. "You just can't let things lie, can you?"

"No, I can't." Ten minutes, ten years and it's still the same argument. "I have a responsibility. I'm reminded everyday how much I owe her."

"Her? If there's anyone who you should feel gratitude for, it should be your father and I. Do you know how much it cost us, not just in money, but time? And for what? So that you can turn into a son whom we never see?"

She knows how her words cut. I bite the inside of my cheek and refuse to lose my temper in front of her. "I never asked for any favors from either of you, and, I never wanted them. I just wanted to do what's right." Which I couldn't even accomplish - this is as close as I can get to the right thing. "If it's the money, I can pay you back."

She waves her hand away. "Money - we have enough of." She moves to me, puts her hand on my face. It reminds me of the time when I had the stomach flu and I couldn't do much except lie on my stomach in bed, my head angled at a trash bin. She would sit next to me and rub menthol on my back. "It's time you moved forward and leave the past where it belongs."

Past and present are ever intertwined and I can't separate them. Doing that would undo me. I lean into her hand for a second - and then I pull away. "I have to go. Tell Dad I'm sorry I missed him." It doesn't matter how many years go by - it's always the same argument, and it always ends the same. The past and the present, intertwined.

"_Arthur! Arthur, get in the car already!" At the end of the driveway, Paige sits behind the steering wheel, although her head and torso are out of the window. "Don't tell me you're studying still. Tomorrow's the last day of school - I think it's okay if you let loose, just this once. I promise I won't tell. Cross my heart." She makes an "X" over her chest with a smooth swish of a pink-tipped finger._

_I remember standing up and running over to her, my books and plans for the evening lying forgotten in a careless heap; and I got in the car with her, laughing and smiling. Looking forward to an evening out with pretty Paige. My biggest worry? Wondering if we were going to break curfew again. Comprehending little about chance or risk. _

I'm back at Lucy's and Eame's in the afternoon, nearly 20 hours later. They've got a guest; a rental car is parked in the driveway. I'm not surprised, what are the odds, after all, that they would be entertaining so quickly? She's sitting on the couch, holding a can of soda and looking thoroughly amused by Lucy and Eames. There's no visible movement from her when I enter but the light drains from her face. "Ariadne. I thought you would be on a flight to Paris by now."

"Oh, honestly, Arthur, the poor girl's not a robot. I told her she should relax, enjoy this luscious weather for a few days before returning to her daily toil." Eames is wearing a tropical t-shirt and loosely gripping the neck of a bottle of beer.

"And I wanted to meet Ariadne. I've heard so much about her, I wasn't about to let the opportunity slip away. And I'm delighted - you're every bit as wonderful as John's described you!", Lucy says as she sets a bag of chips on the coffee table.

"I think that may be the first time I've ever heard your first name, John", Ariadne says, enunciating the one syllable that makes up his name. She's back to that teasing tone of voice. I think about the times she's directed that playfulness at me.

Eames grins. "Don't wear it out, love." He turns to me. "You're awfully silent. How did your errands wind up?"

"Fine." I'm about as joyful as a vacuum. Which makes me even more formal. "It's good to see you again, Ariadne. Where are you staying?"

Her eyes finally meet mine. In a considerably more subdued tone, she answers. "The Wilshire Hotel."

"I'm trying to convince her to stay here with us. Arthur won't mind sleeping on the couch, right, Arthur? Ouch, what are you doing, John?" Lucy is batting away Eames' hand. He gives me an apologetic look.

I cough. "No, it's fine. I'm not staying in L.A. long anyway."

Ariadne says, "No, I'm fine staying at a hotel. No need to put anyone out." She stands up. "I should go."

It's the best plan. Let her go. But she shows up, unexpectedly, what are the probabilities of that occurring? She's shrugging into her jacket. I hear myself calling out, "Wait, don't go yet. You should stay. I don't mind taking the couch. Please."

She hesitates and then nods. "Ok."

Suddenly, the whole room seems to let out a collective breath. "Ok, then. I'm glad we worked it all out", Lucy says. "Lucky for you, we've got plenty of leftover meat from last night."

I don't miss dinner tonight and it's delicious. Afterwards, I ask to borrow Eames' car again. "More errands?", Eames says as he hands over the keys.

I give him a look. "I'll be back later. I'll try to be as quiet as possible." Then I head out, looking straight ahead of me as I head for the garage door.

The lights are out by the time I return. I'm exhausted but I make no more effort to get ready for bed other than sitting down on the couch, which has a fresh pile of linens and pillow on it. "Tough night?"

I recall the night, sitting with Paige. I don't know how much she remembers - I've never dared to ask, but she's always glad to see me. The visits blend into each other - she shows me the painting she drew that morning, describes to me in the now-familiar slow lilting cadence what she ate throughout the day, the television shows she's pursuing, and, what's on the agenda for the rest of the week. There was a time when she talked about going to law school, about spending summers abroad, living on the East Coast and experiencing all four seasons of the year. She's never seen anything outside of the 25-mile radius. She's never left. She'll never leave. "No. Just a long night."

Ariadne sits down across from me, in the armchair. "Where'd you go?"

I rest my elbow on the armrest and my chin on my hand. "It doesn't matter. What did you do after dinner?"

She smiles. "Not much. We played a hand of poker. I was up a hundred dollars on Eames before Lucy put an end to it."

I can imagine that and it makes me laugh, a little. "So you're a card shark on top of brilliant architect?"

"I'm no card shark. I just happen to be better than Eames - which isn't saying much at all." She yawns in mid-chuckle.

"It's late. What are you doing up anyway?"

"I was curious where you'd gone. Wondering if your errands had something to do with your self-professed 'complications.'"

I knew she wouldn't let go of that. "I knew you wouldn't let go of that."

She stares at me, unimpressed. "So I was right, then."

"Did you know I was here when Eames invited you over?"

A beat goes by. "No." Another beat. "But I hoped you might be."

It's exactly what I want to hear and everything I shouldn't be hearing. "I thought we were pretty clear before. At the airport." She flashes me a look - I know she finds it incredibly annoying when I feel the need to state the obvious. Sometimes I do it on purpose.

"You were clear - in a completely ambiguous, mysterious way."

I fold my hands across my stomach. She doesn't say anything either. Seconds stretch into minutes. After awhile, the silence becomes a warm, comforting blanket. I lean back against the couch cushions, unloosen my tie. She tucks her feet underneath her and she lays her head and arm on the armrest. I take off my cuff links and drop them on the coffee table. She unwinds the scarf around her neck and lets it fall to the floor. She's asleep before I am, and, I watch her pink mouth part slightly before drowsiness claims me too.

"_This is my favorite song." Paige laughs at me; her hair is tickling my nose. "You hate it, don't you?"_

"_It's catchy." _

_She laughs again. "You're a terrible liar, Arthur." _

_I like how her arms are around my waist. The heat radiating from the bonfire leaves a cozy glow on my back; I twist so that she can feel it too. "I lie just fine."_

_She snuggles closer. "When you lie, you can never say yes or no directly. That's how I know." She smiles again. "It's one of my favorite things about you." _

I wake up. My back hurts from sleeping in a slouched position. It's rare for me to dream these days. A fortunate side effect. Morning light filters in through the shuttered windows. Ariadne is still sleeping, slumped as well. I lean forward but it's not enough. Suddenly I'm off the couch and silently dragging my knees across the carpeted floor until I'm crouched in front of her. She's breathing in and out, evenly. What is she doing here? What does she want from me? I can't give it to her, whatever it is. My treacherous hand reaches out and follows the curve of her head from the top to its base, then her neck, then her shoulders, an inch from making any contact. It snaps back when she shifts, following the heat. I stand up, let myself out and walk to the beach. The sun is starting to rise. I hate sunrises. But it's better than waiting for everyone to wake up inside, so I force myself to watch the dark blue peel back to corals, blushes and powder shades.

It turns out that I don't have to wait long. Forty-five minutes later, Eames comes outside; it's obvious he's about to go for a run. He spots me immediately and heads over. "What're you doing out here?"

I shrug. "I couldn't sleep."

He frowns. "This doesn't have anything to do with Ariadne sardine canning herself on the chair in the living room, would it? Look, I know it's none of my business but maybe you'd feel better if you told her whatever's bothering you."

I stare out at the ocean. The sun is up, buttery yellow but the eastern horizon still has splashes of pink. "What I need is another job." I like airports and hotels. Recycled air and travel-size portions of shampoo and soap. Cold weather and carry-on luggage. I like turning on my laptop, hearing its whirls and beeps and then being able to uplift every stone in a target's life. I like finding out what they eat for breakfast, what maid service they use, finding the smallest connections between their normal lives and their secret lives. And believe me, there's always a connection, no matter how minute. It's what made me a great research assistant in grad school and what makes me a great point man now. What I do not like is idleness.

"I haven't heard anything, but I'll keep an ear sharp for you. Until then, what are your plans?"

"I'll pay a visit to Cobb soon. See how he's settling back into normal life. Check in with a few of my contacts on the East Coast. Something should be coming along shortly. You?"

Eames gives me a smile that is reminiscent of the Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland. "I'm quite content to play the kept man for the foreseeable future. I might be able to convince Luce to run away to England with me for a few months. Who knows. We'll see." He has the look of a man content with his lot in life, and, aware of his fortune. I watch him as he jogs off, the sun behind him.

My phone rings - the caller ID flashes a number I rarely see. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine, dear. What makes you think it's not?"

_Because you're calling. _ I strangle the words before they gurgle up. "I'm sorry. It's early, and I'm tired. I'm not thinking clearly at the moment."

"Well, I won't keep you then. Your father wants to see you. We think you should join us for dinner before you leave. Are you free tonight?"

"I... um, I..." _You're a terrible liar, Arthur. _

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

I close my eyes. "Yes. I'm free." I must be really tired if the best I can come up with is the truth. "Where do you want to have dinner?"

"I've reserved a table at Tomoyo's. Seven p.m."

I want to smash the phone against my forehead when the call is ended, but I don't do it. It's a good phone and while satisfying, it would leave me disadvantaged in the long run. No, I don't do it. Instead, I walk back inside the house, rummage through my suitcase until I find my jogging shorts and shirt and I go for a long, exhausting run myself. I run until I convince myself that it'll be fine, it won't be a long, protracted affair, and I may actually feel better afterwards. I tell myself that this time, it will be different. There'll be none of the repetitious, vicious circling that always seems to happen. New slate. Time to move forward. _You see, Paige? I lie just fine._


	3. WellPlaced Stoicism

I'm having so much fun imagining and serving up a teenage Arthur... have any ideas about his and Paige's backstory? Hope you like this chapter - read on for more tidbits on his secret!

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**Chapter Three: Well-Placed Stoicism**

_Hope is the dream of a soul awake._

-Unknown

The car door opens and I leave its heated interior to let the morning temperature take bites from parts of my exposed skin. It's an invisible wall, the cold, and I can feel all the blood rushing to my cheeks. The walk from the cab to the diner not five yards away leaves me trying hard not to think about the beach weather I've just left behind; I fail, miserably. The door jingles when I open it and I give myself a good shake, as if there are invisible ice particles clinging to my body. I see him sitting at a table pressed against the window; thankfully, he's got a second mug of coffee across from his own. "Been here awhile?", I ask as I unwrap the scarf around my neck and shed my coat.

"Not long. Just dropped off James and Philippa." Cobb points to the school across the street from the diner; we see children exiting from a few cars and hastening inside the brick building.

"How's Miles doing? It was nice of him to meet you in L.A."

"Fine. He's heading back to Paris in a few days."

I gulp down the coffee and gesture to the waitress for a refill. I study Cobb. "You look rested."

"Thanks. I have no complaints." He examines me. "I heard you stayed longer than expected in L.A. You're usually gone from there before your next blink."

Trust Eames to tell only half the story. Once upon a time, I might have considered cluing Cobb in on what transpired in the last two weeks since the job ended. But I see the way he keeps looking at the school building and I notice the pale shadow of skin on his ring finger which his wedding band used to cover. I remember what he was like, when Mal was still around. What they were like. I hope he'll be that person again, but not too many people ever recover from trauma like that. It's unfair to try to compare what they are now to what they were before; they are shadows of their former selves. "Yeah, I ended up spending some time with Eames and Lucy. Ariadne came by too. Almost felt like we were back on the job. Speaking of which." I lean forward, the hard plastic that cushions the booth I'm sitting atop squeaks as I shift.

Cobb puts a hand up. "You know that's not a focus for me anymore."

"Believe me, I know. I agree with you; I think you're doing the right thing. But if you hear any interesting offers, let me know. That's all."

He smiles faintly. "I'll bet you haven't even unpacked your suitcase yet and you're already looking for the next gig. Sometimes I think what's said about you is true - you are an automaton, Arthur."

It's not the first time I've heard that and it won't be the last. You'd be surprised at how much you can divulge from people with some well-placed stoicism. "Hm."

The waitress refills our mugs. Cobb is leaning back against his chair, one arm slung over the top of it. We let the silence settle in between us, a good quiet - its very contrast reminding me of dinner with my parents not two nights ago. Seeing my mother and father forcing mindless chatter over entrees, trying so hard to ignore the past that refuses to vacate every time we're all gathered in the same space. Once again, it reinforces my belief that one can love people but not be able to be in the same room with, hell, the same side of the country as they are. It's the reason why I booked the next flight out of California the minute I left the restaurant. It's the reason why I feel such gratitude when a particularly brutal winter wind slaps my face or whittles through the seams of my clothes.

"Actually, if you're really itching for something to do, this morsel might sate your appetite between big meals." He leans forward. "Saito."

"If it's another inception, I would hardly call that a 'morsel.'" Exactly how many monopolies does Saito want to break apart?

Cobb shakes his head. "No. He mentioned he would be very receptive to receiving training like Fischer. Especially after witnessing what we've accomplished."

Training Saito against dream hackers. How long would that last? A week, maybe two at best? But I would be doing something. "Where?"

"Tokyo." He takes out his wallet, pulls out a card and slides it across the table to me.

I pick it up and look at the information. "Thanks. Will he be expecting me?"

Cobb's mouth quirks. "You'll have to brush up on your Japanese."

* * *

It's early here, which means it's earlier still over there. I dial anyway. After three rings, I hear a muffled, "Hello?"

"You were sleeping."

There's the rumpling of sheets on the other end and then a click, which must be the lamp on the nightstand. "Was. Past tense. Where are you?"

"Chicago. With Cobb. I've asked him if he's heard any leads for jobs." I pause. It suddenly seems stupid that I'm calling to run down the list of errands I've thus far accomplished. "I should let you go."

"Forget it." She lets out a huge, unladylike yawn. I can picture her stretching as she does, arms sticking out of the comforter like toothpicks. "Who knows when and where you'll call from next."

"I don't work only when I have to because I've run out of money. Unlike Eames, I like to keep busy."

Ariadne laughs. "I find it incredibly adorable how much you try to dislike Eames. Yet you stay with him at his place and you obviously approve of Lucy."

"Lucy's the only thing stopping me from believing he's completely reprehensible. I don't know how she puts up with him."

"She believes in him. That's how." Her voice grows soft, almost like she's about to fall asleep again - I think about the shape of her mouth forming those vowels and syllables, then I catch myself in that half dream-state and force myself to focus.

"What is there to believe in? He won't change, if that's what she's hoping." If her tone is cashmere, mine is a chainsaw.

She makes a noise on the other end of the line. "You're so dense sometimes. Do you think she's some dreamy-eyed teenager? You don't give her much credit."

"You say that, but I know how it works. How it always winds up." My throat coats the words with heat and they come out in a rush. I flex the fingers that are wrapped around the phone.

There's a pause on her end. I dread the next words as she deliberates. "Tell me how it works - how it always winds up."

I'm rubbing my eyes with my free hand. "What are you doing, Ariadne? Why did you answer my call?"

She tosses back, "I answered because the phone rang. If you didn't want to speak to me, you shouldn't have reached out in the first place. Is that what you're trying to say?"

"No, that's not it at all." Maybe the dreamy-eyed teenager is me. I don't know what I was envisioning - that I'd be able to tell her about Paige, my parents? That she might be able to understand why I'm being so evasive? It's crazy. I know it's crazy. "I just wanted to talk to you. I know I left in a rush."

"Arthur, you have to tell me what's going on. I'm really trying here but you're not giving me much incentive." I'm being a jerk; I hate it when I find myself behaving so atrociously. She has a point, and, I need - and want - to share with her some truth about me.

"My parents live in L.A." There. I've said at least that.

"Oh." It comes out like a puff of air. "Was that where you were going to at night?"

"Just the last night. I had dinner with them."

"How did it go?" It surprises me that she chooses not to pry into my whereabouts all the other nights.

I laugh. "Well, I left the next day. So."

"I'm sorry, Arthur. I really am." Sweet Ariadne. If I were where she is now, there is no chance I could refrain from kissing her again. I know this as much as I know the window of opportunity to do that shrinks every day. When she returns to Paris and resumes her normal life, this whole experience will fade and all of the characters she's met will get lumped into one quirky dream. Maybe a few of us will stand out - a tribute in which she'll recall a mannerism, a movement, an expression one of us has displayed or said with a detached and dispassionate fondness. It's the way it's supposed to be - that time moves and people move with it.

I'm used to silence - and sharing it with Ariadne has always been as comfortable as it has been spent in conversation. She doesn't seem to expect you to be one way or the other. I suspect that's why I feel the way I do about her. At the moment, however, the quiet is disconcerting. The seconds of static air between us contain too much electrons, charged and exposed. "I'll be in Tokyo by Thursday."

"With Saito?"

"Yes. He wants extraction prevention training." I could say my good byes now - again - and hang up. Even as this thought is scrolling through my head, I hear myself saying, "When are you heading back to Paris?"

"Friday." It's apparent, even thousands of miles away, that she is smiling. "Back to reality."

The nerves in my body tense. "Yeah." I marvel at how I give the color beige a sound when inside I'm lit up like the night sky during Fourth of July celebrations.

"_What are you doing?" It's dark out - and very late, considering we both have school the next day. But Paige called and said it was urgent that we meet at the beach. Our beach. Where we first kissed. She doesn't call it by its proper name anymore - and neither do I. It's our beach. _

_She looks up, and the flame from the lighter in her hand goes out. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm setting off fireworks." The full moon is out, making her skin look like it's carved from marble. _

"_I don't think we're allowed to do that. Besides, it will wake everyone up." Her hair is a dark muss of loose curls that I want to touch with my hands, and, see if I can taste and smell the salt on it. _

_Paige smiles. "Exactly." In ten minutes, the sky is lit up so brightly, it filters through my shuttered eyelids, in golden red hues, reminding me of the sun. _

"Arthur."

I look out of the hotel window. The sky is grey and I have a view of the elevated train tracks beneath me. I expel a breath of air - it mists up on the glass surface, spreading out unevenly and then receding, disappearing. "Yes, Ariadne?"

"Where were you just now?"

Good question. But then again, am I surprised? Ariadne is nothing, if not full of good questions. I have to work at bringing the name of that spot to the forefront of my memory. I don't think of it as ours anymore. "Camelot Beach - about 15 miles from where you are now. I spent a lot of my formative years there."

She makes a wordless sound. "There must have been a lot of memories for you to wade through."

Too many. "There are reasons why I don't like to talk about my past. It's..." I sigh. What can I say to her to make her understand without having to rehash this? If I were ever to explain the ins and outs of Paige and my parents to her, it would require a sit down, where I can see her face and her eyes. Not over the telephone. Never over the telephone.

"Complicated? I'm starting to get that, Arthur." She doesn't sound annoyed. "I'm sorry I'm making this so difficult for you. I just want to get to know you more, that's all." It's not often when she speaks that her words are inflected with uncertainty.

Ariadne has it half right - she does make it difficult. But she also makes it effortless - so much so that sometimes I can't believe how much I've revealed in front of her. So much so that sometimes I can't believe how much I've been able to withhold from her. "I know. I feel the same way."

There's silence again, but this time it's familiar. Then she says, "Call me when you get to Tokyo. You have my Paris number."

I imagine her hand touching my cheek and remember the way she looked curled into Lucy's armchair. In the few times we've gone under where she is the dreamer without any parameters to follow, we are almost always under open sky - a lavender-sprinkled meadow below our feet and a starry sky over our heads; a desert plain with the moon lighting our path; on the roof of a skyscraper, the air snapping at our skin and stealing our breath. I don't have her Paris number, but she knows that just as much as she knows that doesn't matter. I'll find it. I'll find her.

"Ok. I will." There it is again - that regurgitating feeling inside of me. What would happen if she saw my mess? Would she hang up on me? Refuse to take my call? Avoid me if we bumped into each other on the streets of Paris? What if she did none of those? Would I be the one to run away? I'm not sure which scenario makes me more scared. So I resolve to continue to keep her in the dark instead. "Have a good day, Ariadne." _I wish you were here. I wish I didn't have this wall of regrets standing between us._

"Same to you, Arthur." _Do you wish the same thing? _But there's no answer - and I wouldn't know how to respond anyway.


	4. Tokyo Drift

So hopefully you'll have a better idea of Arthur's headspace and history by the end of this chapter. Happy Holidays everyone!

* * *

**Chapter Four: Tokyo Drift**

_The depth and strength of a human character are defined by its moral reserves. People reveal themselves completely only when they are thrown out of the customary conditions of their life, for only then do they have to fall back on their reserves._

_- Leon Trotsky _

Tokyo is mostly digital efficiency. Its bustling downtown area is more futuristic than New York and if possible, more crowded. And yet, tucked away to the side of one giant yet delicate skyscraper is a noodle shop that has been there for years. Mr. Noguchi, the proprietor of said shop, makes fresh, hand pulled noodles and combines it with whatever the catch of the day is from the sea. Next to the glittering, scrolling digital banners and plasma screens, his dusty chalkboard with the day's menu is a balm. I fall in line and fifteen minutes pass before I make it into the tiny shop. All two of its tables are occupied by customers in business suits, busily slurping away. He looks up at me, and the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes and mouth deepen. "Arthur-chan", he murmurs, dropping his task at the moment and reaching out a hand at me. I shake it with both of mine. "It has been too long."

"Yes it has. How are you, Mr. Noguchi?"

He lifts one knobby shoulder. "A man my age - waking up every day is one more day I won't grouse about." He studies me. "You are in Tokyo for business?" At my nod, he says,"Eat first. We will discuss more later." He prepares a large, steaming bowl for me and gestures me to eat in the back of his shop.

I push through the curtain and walk down the short hallway which is filled with vegetables and other supplies. There is a door and when I pass through it, it opens up into a rather cavernous warehouse. There are a few cots which are, at the moment, empty. I aim for the table and as I proceed to eat my lunch, a man enters at the opposite end of the hall.

He sees me right away and within minutes, he is standing in front of me. We appraise each other for a few seconds - his mouth is set in a grim line. "You still haven't learned how to hold chopsticks properly", he says in Japanese.

"Urusai, baka. Last time I saw you, you were barely taller than these chopsticks." He grins at my words and then slaps a hand on my back.

"Teaching me the ABCs, I remember. Did Sofu see you yet?" I nod, which causes him to rub his palms against each other in a fast motion. "What do you need this time?"

I raise an eyebrow as he walks over to a painted metal cabinet and opens one of its doors. PASIVs, vials of liquids, and other supplies are neatly stacked within. "Taking over the family business?"

"I'm just helping out. I want to go to Oxford. You going to write me a recommendation letter?"

Haru hasn't changed much from the little boy who once shadowed my heels, words tumbling straight from his head out through his mouth. I shake my head, smiling. "I'm not sure a ne'er-do-well alumni of Cambridge will get you very far at Oxford."

He points to the silver suitcase and I nod. "That's too bad, my dude. How you like my American slang? I've been studying."

It's all I can do to keep a straight face. "So I can tell." He is reaching for a small bottle filled with green liquid. "No, not the Full Nelson. Do you have any Hat Trick?"

"Light, lucid and lucent", Haru says, referring to the properties for which the clear-colored somnacin derives its moniker. "It's been in demand lately. Just sold the last batch; when do you need it? Want to try my own special brew? I call it the Tokyo Drift. You know why? Because it's fast and furious."

He waves it in front of me, cherry red liquid swishing in a sealed test tube. I've tried his concoctions before; somehow it managed to slip all of us - Cobb, Nash, me - that we should have used a double dosage with a brew called the One Eye Open. I shake my head. "Another time, perhaps. It's not an extraction job, it's defense. I need something smoother than your Tokyo Drift."

"The Ella Fitzgerald, then? We administer it to newcomers and amateurs." He reaches in and pulls out a vial filled with amber liquid.

"What's the finish like?"

"What did you use on your last job?"

"Kenyan homemade brew. Closest to a Jiminy Cricket or a Leap Year." Yusuf's somnacin compound is far superior to the commercial varieties currently available on the market. I make a mental note to make a pit stop in Kenya to pick some up.

Haru whistles. "Whoa! The outtro is going to be disappointing, whether it's the Hat Trick or the Ella Fitzgerald. But the Hat Trick might be better for you after all, given your tastes these days."

"How long before your next shipment?" I have planned to meet with Saito tomorrow morning.

"Two days. I can deliver to you, if you are in a rush."

The door behind us opens; Mr. Noguchi is standing behind it. "Nonsense. Arthur-chan won't mind coming back again to pick it up, will you?" He walks up to us.

"No, I wouldn't mind at all." The opportunities to see Mr. Noguchi for more than a cursory stop to stock up on supplies in the last ten years have been few and far in between.

"Saito Isamu tells me he was very pleased with your work." Noguchi winces slightly as he takes a seat beside me. He waves away my hand. "I'm just old. There's nothing you can do to help me with that."

"I'm glad to hear a positive review from Saito. He's retained me for some additional work."

Haru quips,"Maybe you get him to write my Oxford letter? He's a large man, even outside of Japan." He ducks, avoiding his grandfather's half-hearted swat of the hand.

"Saito does not trust easily, nor does a man of his prestige have low standards. It is an honor indeed that he has requested your help a second time." He leans forward. "You have gone far since your days as an apprentice."

I bow my head. "With your help."

"No. With your own help. I never expected the hapless busboy I hired so many years ago would develop into such a polished and esteemed gentleman."

_"Let's run away, Arthur." _

_Paige and I are lying next to each other, on a hammock in her parents' backyard. We're supposed to be studying for our final exam of the school year - a torture device concocted by an especially sadistic physics teacher. Our textbooks lie forgotten on the grass beneath us. "What? Now? Why?"_

_She lifts her head, shifts so that her chin and lower half of one arm are draped across my chest. "No, silly. After graduation. You'll defer Harvard; I'll defer Princeton and we travel the world for a year. Work odd jobs. Make everyone mad and secretly jealous. How does that sound?"_

_I laugh, which cause a few fine strands of hair on her head to tremble. "What kind of work could we do?"_

_She shrugs. "Anything. Everything. We're young and smart. What couldn't we do? Haul fish off a ship. Shuttle tourists around in a pedicab. Wash dishes."_

_I take one of her hands, with its nails painted another glowing shade of pink. It reminds me of the color of the sky a few seconds after the sun has risen. "You've never done an honest day's work in your life and you expect to wash dishes and haul fish?"_

_She wrinkles her nose at me. "I'm a fast learner. I'll get by. Just you wait and see, Arthur Gibson. Just you see."_

I blink. Noguchi's face swims before me. I incline my head. "No, I never expected this of myself either."

He holds my gaze for a few heartbeats. "You will come back. When you are done with your latest mission, I will find something else for you." Noguchi knows when I need more work. He has never failed me; and fortunately I have never failed him either.

* * *

I am standing in front of Saito's building two days later. The first thought that pops into my mind is how much Ariadne would love studying its structure. I don't even need to introduce myself; when the guard sees me walk up to the desk, he picks up a phone. In minutes, a suited young man arrives who bows to me deeply. "Mr. Gibson, it is an honor. I am Nakamura Tenchi, Mr. Saito's assistant. Mr. Saito is finishing up a meeting but he should be with you shortly." He says this in flawless English.

I return the bow. "I am early, Mr. Nakamura. I have no problem waiting for Mr. Saito." He blinks at my Japanese but makes no comment.

Saito's office is large - his desk is at the far end of the room, peninsula-ed by three walls of windows. When you look outside and down at the bustling metropolis, it seems like you are floating, alone, above the crowds. His corner of the building juts out on a ledge to give this effect. I turn away and look at his desk. It's made out of thick thermoplastic material - and completely devoid of any thing on top of it - no loose papers, no framed photos, no pen. There isn't even a phone. My finger hovers a centimeter from the polished surface.

"It is good to see you again, Mr. Gibson."

I look up and slowly retract my hand. I bow. "Mr. Saito, I trust all's well since we last met."

He enters into his own space at a stroll. "Yes. There is news that Fischer is...dissatisfied with the large empire his father has built."

I lift an eyebrow. "Imagine that."

Saito smiles. "My compliments to a job well done."

"Thank you, but the best compliment you can give me is further employment."

"A man after my own sensibilities. Very well. I am eager to begin our training."

As I begin to walk around the desk, the tips of my hand brushes the desk. The surface flickers, emitting an electronic hum of light. Squares of images float by - one includes Saito standing next to a younger version of himself in a cap and gown; in another, they are with an older woman wearing traditional Japanese garb. "Fascinating." I look up at him. "This is what I think it is, isn't it? May I?" At his nod, I touch a finger on the surface again - the screensaver vanishes to reveal the standard desktop background. There is one file, placed in the center; at the press of my finger, it opens to reveal a litany of documents. I begin to scroll and selectively read with as much speed as I can muster.

Perhaps a minute or two ticks by before Saito is clearing his throat. "Mr. Gibson, as interesting as you may find my desk, I am on a tight schedule today. I suggest we commence with my lesson?"

I'm still looking through his documents as I say, "Hm? Oh, yes, Mr. Saito, it already has."

"Excuse me?"

I straighten my posture and meet his eyes. "Your lesson? It began before you even stepped inside your own office. It began the moment I was allowed in."

There are clouds on his face as he walks over to me and sees the files I've accessed. His mouth drops. "These are... How did you..?" He whirls around, staring at his surroundings, arm half raised.

I point to my watch and smile. "And... time."

When I open my eyes, a pretty Japanese woman's face is hovering over mine. "Tea?" I shake my head and then sit up, disconnecting the needle and tubing as I do so. Saito is on a massage table a few feet away from me. He stares at me.

"How did you know I would be here today?"

"You've got a good firewall for your network, Mr. Saito. But you should listen to your IT Director and spend the extra money for the proposed upgrade. Security on all fronts is the best deterrent for people like me." I hold out a hand and he places his needle and tubing in my palm.

"I see. Do you agree with the system my IT Director wants to go with?"

I shrug as I shut the PASIV suitcase. "It's about as good as any out there. Although, you may wish to confer with him in choosing an alternative. The less I know, the better off you'll be. I will wait for you outside."

When the door slides open, he is dressed. "Do you mean, that the less you know, the less you can use against me, if ever the situation calls for it?"

We walk down the hallway towards the exit. "Don't forget that our minds retain all information we are exposed to, even if we can't remember it. I may choose not to engage in a job where you are the target, but I know a few of my counterparts would hack into my mind in an attempt to access what I have on you. Most of them won't succeed, but I can't guarantee all of them. Therefore, it's safer for both of us that I know as little as possible."

"But in the dream, you've just read the contents of my computer."

I nod. "Yes, I tried to focus only on the information that didn't pertain to your business. I imagine many young boys growing up in your time would name their pets Godzilla." He colors slightly at my last sentence.

He is silent as we make our way into the car that is waiting for him at the curb. Then he turns to me. "You've shown me that I have to keep my defenses up; now, teach me how I can begin to do that."

* * *

An hour later, I'm standing outside Saito's building. I've given him enough information - he agrees to meet with me in a week's time. This means I have only a few days before the next lesson. As I walk away, mulling over the logistics, my phone rings. I recognize the area code. "Bonjour."

"Hello, yourself. I hope you don't mind, me taking the liberty." She sounds happy, elated. Is she relieved that I picked up the phone?

"No, I'm rather impressed, actually. How did you get my number?"

She clucks at me. "I've learned a trick or two from you. You're not the only one with resources, you know."

"Apparently. I presume you're back in Paris?"

"Just got back yesterday. I've promised Lucy I'm going to visit again."

"Most people find it hard to stay away from the temperate climates Southern California has to offer. Doubly more so when the company is as pleasant as Lucy's."

"I don't know. You seem pretty immune to it."

"I grew up there, so it's different. I'm the exception."

"Yes, Arthur, you are so exceptional. So very, very different from the rest of us mere mortal beings."

I blink at her tone, her words. "Ariadne, are you drunk?"

"No. I'm fine, perfectly so." That's when I notice that her pitch is unusually high.

My heart begins to speed. "Where are you? How are you getting home?"

"You worry too much, you know that? I'll be fine, I've got a car to take me home." Now there is a noticeable slur to her words.

I practically shout, "No, I don't want you driving in your condition." A few heads swivel in my direction. I stop moving just before the curb ends and the traffic light turns green; cars rush forward, an inch shy from my feet.

"Please, Arthur. I'm not the one driving. Don't be ridiculous. I don't own a car, in the first place. Although, I guess I can afford one now... Do you think I should? You know, buy a car? I've always wanted a Beetle. The quiet one."

My hands are shaking. I'm sweating. I take two or three deep breaths. "Who's driving you home, Ariadne? Can I speak with him or her first?"

"Ok... but I hope you can speak French." She giggles. "Of course you can speak French. You can probably speak Swahili, if you needed to, right? Here's Emmanuelle."

"Combien l'a a bu?", I say without preamble at the woman's "Salut."

"Assez que je la conduis de nouveau à son appartement." Her voice is even. The words come out, calm and unhurried. "Ne vous inquiétez pas, je restera avec elle."

"Merci. Elle est importante pour moi." She hands the phone back to Ariadne. "Ariadne, stay with your friend. I will call you in the morning, ok?"

"Ok. But just remember, I called you first."

We hang up and I can't seem to remain standing without support from a wall. I prop a hand against the closest one, trying to regain my wits about me. But it's useless, because the floodgates have opened.

_She collapses on the sand next to me, smelling like wood from the bonfire and rests her chin on my shoulder. "You're drunk." _

"_I'm fine, Arthur. Relax, why don't you? We've just had an amazing night, don't ruin it by going all parental on me." I grimace and pull my hands back as she tosses the car keys underneath her blouse._

"_I'd rather we get home in one piece, thank you."_

_She pouts. "You're one to talk. No way. Give me ten minutes, I'll be even more sober by then."_

"_I don't know, Paige..."_

"_Come on, it's almost dawn, anyway. We'll stay for the sunrise and then we can go. Is that ok, Mr. Frowny Face?" _

I try and I try, but I can't remember much else from that night, a few meager, fuzzy details which I have spent years sorting and resorting, in vain. There are different accounts of it all, but nothing fits. None of the scenarios reveal anything to me. It's lost inside, a memory I can't access, not with hypnosis; not with drugs; not with conscious effort; not even in dreams. I only know this - I am responsible for destroying a family. Because the next clear memory I have is waking up in a hospital bed and there is blood on my hands. If only - how many times have I said this, how many times have I wished this - if only the story could have just ended there.


	5. After or Away From Something

I'm publishing Chapter 5 on the heels of Chapter 4! Don't get too used to this, though - Chapter 6 won't be up until past the new year... Hope everyone has a great holiday season!

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**Chapter Five: After or Away From Something**

_That is to say, nature's laws are causal; they reveal themselves by comparison and difference, and they operate at every multivariate space/time point._

_- Edward Tufte _

It's morning and she opens the door to find me, waiting. Everything about her stills. Her mouth makes an "o". I know how I must appear. The words I say are for now, but they're for the past as well. "I'm sorry, I should have called in advance."

She shakes her head, still wordless. It takes her a moment and then she gestures me in. Her space is all soothing tones - muted greens and yellows for the walls, a couch which looks comfortable enough to sleep on and magazines laid out in a haphazard fashion on the coffee table. Directly across from where I'm standing is another room, with its door ajar to reveal an inner sanctum. I peer inside and see a desk, some chairs, a chaise lounge. "You've done it, haven't you? I knew you would." In truth, I've known for awhile. I've been one of her anonymous, generous benefactors.

"Arthur-chan", she finally manages out. She takes two steps and places a hand on my shoulder. "Can it be?"

I nod and cover her hand with my own. I know she's looking for the same chaos in my eyes as I'm doing with hers. "Hitomi-chan. How are you?"

She breaks into a smile, and hastily brushes at the corners of her eyes. "I'm... I'm doing well. Very well, actually." Our hands drop away from contact. "I never thought I would see you again... I didn't know if that was the best or worst thing that could have happened."

I know what she means. There's a common belief that shipwrecked survivors would band together for strength, perhaps piece their half-lives into something resembling a whole; but for Hitomi and I, this has not been the case. We found each other not long after I arrived rather unceremoniously in Okinawa, the furthest point away from everything that reminded me of home and the origin of some intriguing rumors. She was a split log brimming full of anger and resentment, while I was completely obsessed with finding obscured truth. We were a handful, to say the least. Had it not been for the wide-reaching influence of my parents' wealth and connections, I imagine I would still be locked away in a southeast Asian prison. It wasn't incarceration which rehabilitated me, though. It was an intense desire to not have to depend on my family anymore.

Looking at the woman standing before me, I say, "It's clear to me."

She gives me a tour of her office. Like me, she stopped trying to run herself into the ground; instead, she chose to find a purpose in her life. She went back to school, learned the necessary tools, and began to practice and implement what she had studied. Unlike me, she focused her energy outward. "I receive more referrals than I can handle now. I choose to work with people with the most severe traumas, or, who are the most neglected. Sometimes the two go hand in hand. I don't think I ever imagined I would be helping others learn to live with the experiences we went through. And that it would be so healing for me." She runs a hand over the file cabinets and tucks a loose wisp of hair behind her ear. "Enough about me. What have you been doing? I have wondered where you might end up. I'm not surprised that you seem to be in comfortable circumstances." The last time she saw me I wore tattered jeans that hadn't been washed in weeks.

"After Okinawa, I lived in Tokyo for awhile; then, when I had saved up enough money, I moved to England for college. Now, I work mostly amongst the corporate world, on a consulting basis."

She tilts her head before shaking it lightly. "You always liked to keep your secrets." She studies me and straightens her posture. "You're still running, aren't you?"

I raise a shoulder, let it drop. "I'm not sure whether it's after or away from something anymore."

"You know this can't be healthy."

That makes one corner of my mouth curl. "And yet, here I stand, still alive." The expression on her face is unmistakable; I continue before she has a chance to voice it aloud. "I need your help, Hitomi-chan."

This surprises her; it's in the way her hand flies up to her chest, the involuntary small step back. "My help?"

"You've no doubt read about collective cognizant dreaming."

Her brow wrinkles. "Yes, some psychologists believe that actualizing such a radical theory may be beneficial to people in many capacities. Why do you ask?"

"What do theorists say about applying it towards your area of expertise?"

"In the case of trauma victims, it may help them to confront their fears without any real repercussions. But it's purely conceptual at the moment, and least of all, a very controversial hypothesis." I look at her. She looks at me. Then she really starts to back away. "No."

I pursue her, hands steadying her at the shoulders. She's still denying as I say over her mumblings, "What if I told you it was more than possible? That it opened up a reality to which you'll never have access to, no matter how frequently you meet with your patients, no matter how much they reveal to you in those sessions? Imagine the results you could yield, the people you can help."

The lines on her forehead grow darker. "This is what you have been dealing in since you started working?"

She's not the same anymore. That's ok, even if it depresses me a little. "This is what I have been dealing in since I woke up in the hospital and couldn't remember the three days prior."

"What do you mean?"

It doesn't matter that we haven't seen each other in years, that in that amount of time, we've become two different people, polar even. She was the only person I trusted, the only person I could depend upon, the only person who understood. It's based on this that I tell her about dream sharing and breaking into people's mind to steal their ideas. How it started as a wild pursuit, a way to a means but somehow ended up evolving as a way to escape, a way to deflect.

"Do you trust me still?" It's the question that's been hanging between us since the moment she opened that door and found me outside of it. She doesn't even have to respond verbally. "Then let me show you what I mean." I pull the silver suitcase from where it's propped against the wall in the hallway.

She watches it, warily. But like everyone, there's more than a little curiosity too. "Is it... safe?"

"Yes." I gently move her to the chaise lounge and hand her the needle and tubing that I've already assembled.

"Arthur-chan, I want to help you, I really do, but I don't know how."

"It's simple, you won't even need to go into dream when I ask you to do what I need you to do. But first, I need you to understand and the best way to do that is to let you experience basic dream sharing. Lie down."

She doesn't want to say yes so readily, I can tell. Some first timers are like that. "I'm supposed to meet my husband in an hour... I don't want to be late."

I press the needle into her wrist, she jumps at the slight sting. Then I do the same for myself. "We've all the time in the world then." Our eyes lock as I depress the button and the somnacin is released into our bloodstreams.

She turns white. "Arthur, are you sure-"

I find her at the cotton candy stall, pulling a pink swatch of the stuff away from the paper spool in her hand. A group of children run, excited, around and between us to the slow-revolving ferris wheel that serves as a backdrop. She watches them go, turns her body to follow them. She spots me and I walk over. "Where are we?"

"The World's Fair." We are standing on a crest; the lights coming from the temporary encampment sprawl before us. "See that building over there? That's supposed to hold the largest collection of gemstones and jewels from around the world. Over there? Just on the outskirts? Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show."

She starts to walk in the direction of the bright lights I've pointed out to her, but she stops. "Is this a dream?"

I nod. "Yes. My mind takes fragments of what I know about the Chicago's World Fair and reassembles it into what you see here. The subconscious populates it with the people, the things that make you believe that it's real."

She looks around. "Whose subconscious is making this happen?"

"Mostly mine. We're in my dream and you're the guest." We have ended up in front of a house of mirrors. "Let's go in."

The noise outside disappears upon entry, as does the warmth and light. The interior is just a long, wide hallway full of mirrors, twisted into various shapes and lengths. She's expecting distorted images of ourselves, and lets out a gasp when instead she sees a small child, looking back at us rather calmly. Her hand reaches out, touches the reflective surface; watches in fascination as he flattens a palm against the exact same spot on the other side. She pulls back and checks behind the mirror. "There's nobody there", she says.

The boy gives me a look; I am infinitely more patient as I explain to Hitomi, "The rules of reality don't apply here. Don't expect anything reasonable to happen; in fact, that's most likely when nothing will make any sense."

"What's the purpose behind showing me a younger version of yourself?"

I shrug. "I don't know. You'll have to ask my subconscious."

She kneels down until she is at eye level with my projection. "What are you trying to tell us?"

But he doesn't answer. And after a few minutes, he walks away from our view. Hitomi gets to her feet, and brushes the dirt from her knees. "Is that normal?"

"Nothing in the dream world is normal." She follows me further into the recesses. At the next mirror we stop in front of, a small white cat is what greets us, tail curling sideways. "We don't have any more insight in how the mind works than mainstream scientists do. But what has been gathered is that everyone's subconscious is completely unique - while some are highly receptive to dream hackers, most are hostile - very hostile. Still others react by throwing up defenses - making its subconscious completely impregnable." I point at the cat. It looks up at me with mutinous black eyes. "Such as transforming into a form that you believe is incapable of communicating with you. Quite the stubborn being, isn't it?"

"Dreamers can't communicate directly with their own subconscious?"

"Not in my case, no." I know some people have recreated long sequences of memories in their dreams, but it's rare for me. I have never been able to get more than these fleeting glimpses. "Believe me, I - oh."

Hitomi turns to look at the image on the next mirror. "Is this Paige?"

She's wearing the same outfit I last saw her in, her hair unbound, a dark waterfall of shiny waves. For some reason, she's got a pencil in her hand. I think about the beach, the sound of her voice, the lightness of her laughter. Right now she's looking at me with a bemused twinkle in her eyes. She raises an eyebrow at Hitomi. Well, this is new. "No."

Before Hitomi can ask me to elaborate, I nudge her down to another reflection. This one I've seen before. This one I expect, but every time, I hope, I hope, that maybe I'll see something else, something more. I look awful - I never get over that. Hitomi doesn't have to ask when or what this represents. She's woken up in a hospital bed before, bruised, battered, confused. I shake my head; my reflection projection echoes the movement. "I keep looking at this person and I don't know who he is. I don't know how he ends up in this situation and why he alludes me. I should know, I should be able to tell." As the words come out from me, he shadows me, his lips moving in perfect sync.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?"

I wish I could explain to her, but when she's looking at me like that, I start to wonder if I am completely off my rocker. It hasn't been a question I haven't asked myself before. Is it so easy to let something go? Maybe I just haven't tried hard enough - and I have had brief bursts in my lifetime since the accident where I have tried to do what my mother has suggested, what Hitomi is suggesting now, what others have suggested - to move on, to let go. I only end up with a stronger conviction that knowing the unknown is the key.

What surprises us both is that my reflection answers for me. "You act as if we have a choice in the matter, Hitomi-chan. There's a line that gets drawn on the floor and there's no turning back when you cross it. You know that - your life becomes broken into parts - before and after." He swivels his head towards me. "The line becomes you, and you are never more than a few steps away from it, judging the distance between. Everything good or bad that happens is filtered through that same terrible, wonderful line. Isn't that right, Arthur?"

My heart is pounding. I watch him lift his hand up to tap the spot on his own chest. "What happened to your hand, Arthur?", I ask in a careless tone.

His brows draw together. "They tell me there was an accident." He looks to his left and right. "Where's Paige?"

He's slipping away from me. "Since you seem to understand me so well, tell me. Show me the line." He doesn't answer; instead, he reaches over to the morphine drip and presses the button several times. "Where's the line, Arthur? Arthur." The glass fractures, radiating outwards from my fist. He doesn't move except for the fluttering of his eyelids. I hit the mirror again and this time, it shatters.

"Arthur, your hands." I've forgotten Hitomi is still there.

I wave a bloodied hand, ignoring the sting. "It's not real." I move away, my head angled down at the floor; the first thing I notice are his shoes. Brown leather shoes, scuffed and cracked. Slacks made from synthetic fiber. The badge clipped ontp his belt, the slight tuft of stomach hanging over it. My hand clenches; it makes the blood clotting agents which staunches the bleeding break free and droplets run over my knuckles, falls to the floor. The damn detective. My lips peel back and I hear a snarl come from my own throat. He stands, most of his weight on one foot, opposing hand in the pocket of his pants. Despite the pain and the glass shards still entrenched in my flesh, I make contact for a third time against the hard surface.

"Arthur!"

A million sneering faces shine back at me. I turn away. "It's just part of the dream. Come on. Time to go."

When we come to, the first thing she does is check my hands. "I can't believe that just happened." She sits back on her heels and runs a hand through her hair.

"Will you help me, Hitomi-chan? You understand why, don't you?"

She's quiet at first, head bowed. Then she looks up and says, "What do you have in mind?"


	6. Give Me Pause

**Chapter Six: Give Me Pause**

"_Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You."_

_-Dr. Seuss _

_Three... Two... One..._

"Wake up, Arthur Gibson."

There's something warm on me. I crack an eye open and then throw an arm over my face. "Go away."

She laughs. "Can't. Morning person, remember? I'm just going to stay here and bug you until you get out of bed, lazy pants."

It's not her chatter that finally does it; it's the finger jabbing. I growl and she squeals as I trap her underneath my own body. For a moment, there's silence as we kiss. "How did I ever end up with a morning person?", I say when I pull away slightly, putting emphasis in my sigh.

She places both her hands on my face. The sunlight is streaming in through our bedroom window and falls just so on her face. I am dazed as she smiles. "You can't escape what was meant to be, buddy."

My finger trails the side of her cheek. "Es, eras, eris semper amor meus in aeternum."

She turns her nose up in the air. "You think you're so slick. I bet that was the motto of your alma mater, wasn't it?" Despite her disaffected tone, she can't hide the reddening of her cheeks.

I lower my head and run my lips against the side of her neck, underneath her jaw. It's something which always makes her purr and it doesn't fail us now. "You speak as if you didn't matriculate from college. A rather prestigious one too, I might add."

She's a fast little devil, is what I think as she whacks me on the head, hard enough to make me lose balance and topple beside her. In an instant, her face is looming over mine. "Valedictorian, mind you."

I grin. "How can I forget that, ah, memorable speech at graduation? I hear the Dean has its transcription framed and hung on the wall behind his desk."

She starts to get into the subject but stops in time. "I know what you're trying to do, you know." She wiggles a finger at me. "Don't give me that face. We promised. If you don't get up soon, we're going to be late for brunch."

I let a rude noise slip out, but, sit upright and swing my legs off the bed. "You'd think we were having tea with the Queen. And by the way, next time, could you check in with me before you so readily agree to socialize with my parents?"

"Why? You make plans with mine all the time without asking me first."

"I like your parents; what's more, YOU like your parents."

She throws me a look over her shoulder as she sifts through the rack of clothes in our closet. "Your mother and father are perfectly lovely people, Arthur. We should be spending more time with them. It's not right that we don't."

"Admit it, you've been trying all these years to get into my mother's good graces. So she'll stop not-so-secretly comparing you to my college girlfriend." I narrowly avoid the shoe that flies past my head.

"You mention her more frequently than your mother does. What was her name again?" There's a dangerous light in her eyes.

I tap a finger on my chin. "Hm. Can't remember." I laugh as she holds another shoe in mid air. "Didn't you say something about being late for brunch? I'm going to wash up."

We're running fifteen minutes late; I am shrugging into my jacket as we step out of our house and into the driveway. "Got the keys?"

She jangles them in one hand. "Yep. You know, I can drive." She says this in response to my wiggling fingers.

"That's ok. I want to."

She rolls her eyes. "I know you want to. You always want to. Maybe I want to, too."

"Ok, next time." I take the keys and open the passenger side door for her.

She pouts as she climbs into our car. "You always say that. One little accident and now you always have to drive. You know, just like you, I get behind the wheel every day to go to work."

"What if it has nothing to do with the accident, hm? What if I enjoy chauffeuring you around whenever possible?" She doesn't grace me with a verbal response, she just snaps the seat belt into place as she rolls her eyes. Her words give me pause. "About that. Do you remember what happened in the accident?"

She places a hand over my forehead. "What a funny thing to ask. Are you feeling ok?"

Before I can come up with an answer, however, my phone is ringing. I stifle the urge to make a face. "Hello, Mother."

"I just wanted to call and see if you're almost here."

"Yes, we're five minutes away."

"Very well. I'll have Carmen take out the biscuits. They will be at the perfect temperature just as you're arriving. We're all waiting."

I don't have time to continue with my line of questioning after that; after that, I'm too busy getting us to my parents' house without endangering lives. She sits in the passenger front seat, clearly amused. "Next time I need you to do something without giving me lip, I'll just have your mother command you."

"She's going to assume it's because of you that we're running late, you know. If I had married what's-her-face, she would have gotten us there early. That's what she's going to think. Honestly, I'm just trying to be a good husband and spare you the grief."

"Whatever. Mama's Boy." I grin; she sees it from her peripheral vision and musses my hair. It's unusual when she's at a loss for a clever comeback.

We get to the house nearly twenty minutes later. My mother gives me a look to which I respond by blaming our tardiness on an unexpected traffic jam on the freeway. Dad is sitting out in the patio with Dan - I'm assuming they are talking about whatever sports game has recently been on.

My wife offers to help but as usual, to no avail. We all sit down and our brunch is served by the silent and very efficient Carmen. "How's work?" This, of course, from Dad.

I bob my head up and down as I answer. "Good. Busy."

Dan says, "Weren't you thinking about becoming your own boss? I've been keeping an eye on some nice properties, if you're serious about that."

Trust my brother to find a way to make it about himself. "Thanks, Dan. I'm still mulling the prospect over. I've been talking it over with a colleague of mine - last name is Cobb. We think it might work in our favor to combine our specialties and start a partnership."

"Partnerships can be hard, even with the right people involved. You have to make sure the other person is dependable - I read articles in the paper all the time about someone running away with the money and leaving his partner with all the debt. They end up financially ruined. It can go horribly wrong", Mom warns.

"I trust Cobb with my life. The problem is whether or not the market is over saturated. We've been looking into hiring a consultant to take a needs assessment. Meeting with one on Monday, in fact."

"Who is it?"

"Eames? Can't remember his first name." Something jogs in the back of my mind as I tell them this. A fluttering that I can almost touch, but not quite. I turn my head as my peripheral vision catches a wisp of white. In the line of palm trees, behind a trunk, I think I see someone. Someone I've seen before, but I don't know where. I can't even recall features to the face, but it's familiar nonetheless.

"Hon? You ok?"

I turn to her, my wife. She slips her hand into mine as she angles her face to mine. We're standing out by the pool in the backyard; the sun is casting rays down on the back of our necks and the sky is clear. I put my arm around her as we admire the view; she drops my hand to wind her arm on my waist. "I'm mentally wiped out. Are you happy now? Will you agree with me when I say we have more than sufficiently filled our quota of quality time with your in-laws?"

She gives me such a look that I can't resist kissing the patch of skin on her left hairline - I've kissed that spot so many times I wonder it hasn't formed a dent that would fit my lips perfectly. "Arthur, since when did you become such a curmudgeonly, old man?"

I snort. "Sometime between Mom's comments about the biscuits being two degrees too cool and my brother trying to bum rush me into buying one of his commercial properties."

"They're not as bad as you paint them to be."

"If I didn't know just how smart you are, I'd think you were missing a screw in your head. They're exactly as bad as I paint them to be and it's time you admitted it." She looks at me, her mouth set in a firm line. "I've put up with your weird Pollyanna attitude about my family long enough. Not another ten years of this. Not another ten minutes of this."

We stare at each other so long that my eyes start to water. Finally, finally, she concedes with, "Ok, they have a tendency to be strong willed, at times." It's as much as any victory I've ever been able to wring from her.

I lean over until our foreheads press against each other. "Strawberry shortcake for you tonight. From Ichabod's."

Her expression doesn't waver as she says, "Strong willed or not, bribe or no bribe, we're going to see your family again. For Easter weekend."

Her whole person doesn't allow me to groan out loud, but, I cannot refrain from saying, "Mrs. Gibson, you suck."

It makes her giggle. She leans up, on her tiptoes, to brush her lips on my nose. "Aw, I love you too. Come on, I heard you mention something about cake from Ichabod's."

One cake order later, we are on our way home. It's going to be a lovely late afternoon in Los Angeles. My wife is singing, rather enthusiastically, to the latest pop song they are playing on all the radio stations. She's snapping her fingers, bobbing her head from side to side, and, completely out of tune. As soon as she pauses for a breath, I say the thing that's been on my mind all day. "Remind me again - why haven't we invested in the white picket fence, the dog, the 2.5 kids?"

"Ah... What?"

I give her a quick glimpse. "I'm serious."

"I know you are, but I'm trying to figure out why my husband, who has been exhibiting strange tendencies all day, suddenly and casually tosses this out. Kind of a bomb, don't you think?"

"Because I look at my beautiful wife, who's trying so hard to keep me connected to my crazy family and it makes me wonder - why aren't we trying to start our own little, crazy family?"

She laughs. "What? You want to start now, here, on the freeway? Or maybe we should take a little more time to fully consider it before I start knitting onesies." We drive for a few more minutes in silence. I don't have to look over to know that she is fiddling with the zipper on her sweatshirt. "I'm not opposed to it, you know."

I clear my throat. "I know." One of my hands goes to one of hers. It's warm and soft and I wonder what my life was like before I was able to touch her like this. I can't quite remember. But that nagging feeling from before returns and I realize, once upon a time, I didn't have all of this. Once upon a time, her hand was forbidden to me for some reason, something that felt important. Once upon a time, I was unhappy and alone. I recall this condition, this state of being, vaguely, but I am fighting it. I want to remember only the good things that have happened since - traveling to Asia and Europe after graduation, starting my internship, meeting my future wife on that cold, rainy day in Paris. Everything else, I want to obliterate. I don't know why this desperation exists in me, why my heart speeds when I dwell too long on the murkiness I've left behind. What I will focus on is now. Nothing else matters. I can choose not to remember.

* * *

**AN: **I thought I would start the new year with a bit o' fluff. Some of you may be wondering (1) who did Arthur marry? Paige? Or Ariadne?; and, (2) why I decided not to identify her. I thought it would be more interesting to let you the reader come to your own conclusion on the mystery woman. And to be honest, for the longest time, **I** couldn't figure out who she was... and then it was just plain ol' fun not to name her. )

Anyway, I hope you enjoy and it won't take me nearly a month to update the next chapter to this story!


	7. Demons Built Up Inside

**Chapter Seven: Demons Built Up Inside**

"_Faith is not something to grasp, it is a state to grow into."_

_- Mohandas Gandhi _

My cellphone rings ten minutes later; it's work. "It looks like I have to go in. Do you want me to drop you off at home first?"

She braces an elbow against the car frame and rests her head in one palm while the fingers on the other hand run through my hair. "It won't delay you?" I shake my head. "Ok, yes." She digs out her own phone from the pocket of her jacket.

"No, wait. Let me guess who."

She wrinkles her nose and sticks her tongue out at me. "You have your counterpart, I have mine." I hear the line connect on the end. "You heard? No - bring the kids over anyway. We have cake - yes, of course, where else? Incentive for our spouses to hurry home for dinner, right?" She laughs. "Brunch - his parents. How'd he take it?" She peers over at me. There's mirth in her voice. "Oh, you know. Yep, see you in a bit."

When she hangs up, I say, "You know, if I didn't know better..."

Her eyebrow raises to mirror mine. "The same could be said about you as well."

It makes me laugh. "See, that's how I know there's nothing going on between the two of you. No, no - someone like me could never go against the Golden Boy." The moniker sends her into a fit, the kind where she's clutching her stomach.

Shortly after I have safely deposited my wife in the driveway of our house, I'm in front of the gold-embossed sign of Thousand Oaks Center. The facility is privately funded by nearly all the residing patients' families. Most of them won't be able to live independent lives, and, luckily, they are well provided for. But, occasionally, Thousand Oaks will admit someone on a pro-bono basis. And this person just happens to be the reason why I'm here on a Sunday afternoon.

A tall figure in a white lab coat is waiting for me as I walk up the few steps to the front door. "Dr. Gibson, I hope I didn't interrupt you from anything too important."

"Just preparing the house ready for our guests later this evening, Dr. Cobb." I'm shrugging on my own white coat as I say this.

My partner-in-crime smirks. "Very important guests, I'm sure."

I pull the stethoscope from the pocket and wrap it around my neck. "My wife thinks your husband will actually get there on time with the kids."

Mal laughs. "Perhaps, but I'm fairly certain that he won't without losing a few years to his life span. Children are a handful, even with two of us." She hands me a clipboard, which is filled with her meticulous handwriting.

I spare her a glance as we walk indoors. "Did you have my car wired? We were just talking about that, not ten minutes before you called."

"Children? Oh, Arthur!" She claps her hands together.

"Well, it's not a done deal yet - we're still in the consideration stage." I flip through the charts. "Is this what I think it is? She was scheduled for surgery next week. Tell me, Mal, is it possible for a patient to recuperate from a risky procedure without having said procedure?"

It's hard to believe; all the doctors before me predicted she would remain in a lifelong vegetative state. Her parents refused to give up hope. They came to me six months ago, having run through the top neurosurgeons on the East Coast. She was - is - a young woman, but she has spent the last ten years in a coma. Her family used up all their savings - and then some - to keep alive the belief she would wake up one day. After all the diagnostics and one pending, experimental surgery, it seemed likely I would be yet another doctor in an increasing line of doctors giving the same verdict, over and over, to her loved ones. Until today. "Have you assessed her preliminary behavior?"

"I ran a basic series of psychological tests on her earlier. There's visible signs of disorientation and confusion, but, it appears not to be out-of-the-ordinary, considering she has been in a coma for the last ten years."

Mal isn't exaggerating; our patient is awake and sitting up when we enter her room. She's watching the news on the television, riveted by the images on the screen. "I've been watching since I woke up. I can't believe all that's happened."

Mal introduces me to her. I check her vitals - they are all at healthy levels. "Can you tell me what you remember before waking up?"

"I was in a dream; I was married and living in Paris. It felt so real." She stares at her hands as if somehow they are her anchors to reality. "If I try hard, I feel like I could recall speaking French." She meets my eyes; her pupils are dilated, her irises are clear. "But it wasn't ten years in my dreams."

"You've probably had a series of dreams which you don't remember anymore. What I meant was if you recall anything from before the coma. The accident, perhaps?"

Mal looks over at me but I ignore her. I am staring at the patient. Her eyebrows are drawn together and her head is tilted. "There was a party... On the beach... And we were drinking." She looks around. "Oh my God. Where is he?"

"He's fine. What happened at the party?"

"Arthur, what are you doing?", Mal asks in a lowered voice.

I don't know what I'm doing, all I know is that I need to know what happened. It's important. "Do you remember? Were you behind the wheel?"

The patient begins to breath at a shallow and rapid pace. She turns pale. I realize I'm nearly towering over her; Mal's gripping my elbow and I step back. "Arthur, I do not recommend this. She's having a panic attack. We can test her cognitive state when she's had more time to absorb everything." Mal is glaring at me over the woman's head.

She's right. I take a step back and address the patient. "You should rest up. Your family will, no doubt, be here soon. No more television for today. Just rest. Dr. Cobb and I will be back tomorrow, but there will be staff to check on you every few hours."

As soon as we are out of earshot, Mal rounds in on me. "What was that about?"

We've known each other a long time, so even if she weren't a trained pyschologist, she knows when I'm trying to deflect. "Sorry. I, uh, I thought she could take it."

"You thought she could take it?" She skips ahead of me by a few paces to try to catch my gaze.

"We should start her on a regimen of central nervous system stimulants as well pyschoactive medications. Let's see how she reacts to ritalin and neurontin. I'll make a note to the nurses and aides to let us know if any signs of aggression or agitation appears in the next few weeks." I stop abruptly when I receive no response. She's still trying to reason out my behavior. "Mal, one apology is all you're going to get."

I resist the urge to squirm under her owl eyes. After a few more seconds of scrutiny, she nods. "Most comatose emergents exhibit some degree of antianxiety. I'd also recommend valium or ativan, starting at low dosages. She seems to be relatively stable but who knows what demons have built up inside of her", she says.

"How many TBIs have we seen throughout the years, Mal? Hundreds? Some of them were in better or worse conditions and they never wake up. Some of them remember every detail, some memories are completely destroyed."

She radiates sympathy. "There's no formula. It's just the way things end up, Arthur."

My hand makes a fist. I stuff it into a pocket. "It's not fair, Mal. People shouldn't be left wondering." This is why I'm here, isn't it? It's why I went through all that rigorous training, right? What am I doing if I can't help them in that capacity?

"We make do with what we're given. It's a good day for every day we wake up, having what we have and who shares our lives. I don't think anyone would say you haven't done everything you could, for every one of your patients. That's nothing to sneeze at either, Dr. Gibson." She squeezes my hand. "Let's finish up here. Dom's going to start losing all that lovely hair of his if I don't help with the kids soon." She manages to wring a small laugh out of me and we head back towards the exit. Her words rattle inside of me, small, sharp, ineffectual.

* * *

**AN:** It occurred to me as I started to write this chapter that Arthur's relationship with Mal would be closer than Arthur's relationship with Dom. Hence, in this alternate state, with Mal being alive and well, Arthur's interactions with Dom would be more limited. Anyway, the story will progress in the next chapter. Promise. (But, I hope you enjoyed this other reality as much as I did!)


	8. Arthur Gibson, wake up Wake up

**Chapter Eight: Arthur Gibson, wake up. Wake up.**

"_Illusions commend themselves to us because they save us pain and allow us to enjoy pleasure instead. We must therefore accept it without complaint when they sometimes collide with a bit of reality against which they are dashed to pieces."_

_~Sigmund Freud_

The rest of the weekend rolls by, uneventfully. I lay awake on those nights, with my wife in my arms, listening to her soft inhalations and exhalations of breath. We make pancakes together on Sunday morning, argue companionably over who gets first crack at The New York Times crossword puzzle, and, I nag her to do her share of the household chores. It's 48 hours, more than enough time but Monday arrives and I dawdle in the house when I should have been well on my way to work.

I'm finally about to head out the door as I notice my wife is still in her pajamas at the kitchen table, picking over the remnants of breakfast. "Better get a move on, or, you'll be obnoxiously late."

She pops a blueberry in her mouth. "Working from home today."

I roll my eyes as I lean down and kiss her lightly on the top of her head. "What a toiling life you lead, Mrs. Gibson."

She grabs my tie and I'm yanked down for something more intense. "Don't be jealous, Mr. Gibson. I'll swing by later today; we'll have lunch."

"Sounds like a plan." We pull away, but my gaze lingers over her eyes, her lips. The spot of strawberry preserves on her lower left cheek. I wipe it away with my thumb and anticipate what it will be like to grow old with this woman. Something inside of me is begging me to stay, to extend the weekend for one more day. I'm immeasurably sad as I walk out the door.

Mal is already at the hospital by the time I get there. "How's our patient doing at Thousand Oaks?"

"Incredibly well. It's like she only fell asleep after having a late night - she's displaying almost none of the symptoms that are typical for coma emergents."

"We'll ask Harry to join us this afternoon - see how much physical therapy she may need. I also want to test her neuoro-muscular reflexes. What time are we meeting this fellow?"

She checks her watch. "Another half an hour?"

Forty-five minutes later, an Englishman is escorted into the adjoining meeting room between mine and Mal's offices. "Damned L.A. traffic", mutters the man as he extends a hand out towards me. "John Albert Eames." He turns to Mal and slides seamlessly into perfect French. He kisses the topside of her palm.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Eames", Mal says, in English.

His smile grows wider. "Please. Call me Bertie. Or Eames. Anything else makes me think I'm a headmaster. Or a butler."

"Very well, Bertie. As you know, Arthur and I have been discussing the possibility of opening our own clinic, focusing only on victims of traumatic brain injury. We called this meeting with you to analyze the viability of this plan."

Despite Eames' exterior, his questions are intelligent and his answers are well-informed. We spend an hour planning our strategy and identifying next steps. I find myself liking the man considerably. The meeting ends amicably, with Eames promising to follow up in three days' time. Mal and I make haste to Thousand Oaks; our coma patient's family is waiting for us and we are eager to be more fully testing her cognitive functions.

I check the side mirror and mutter an oath. This causes Mal to twist her head and look back. I pull off to the curb as Mal reaches into glove compartment across from her for the car's registration.

He's wearing dark trousers and a thin, tan, long overcoat. I roll down the window. "Hello, Officer." The angle of my vision doesn't allow me to see much more than his torso. I hand over my license and registration.

"Arthur Gibson. M.D. Big, fancy doctor, aren't we? Big, fancy car. Do you know why I pulled you over?" As the plainclothes officer says this, Mal and I glance at each other. I'm driving a Prius.

I opt for honesty and contrition, sensing the man would not take well to any sort of feigned grace or charm. "I was speeding. I'm sorry; there's no excuse for it."

"Do you realize you put yourself and your passenger at risk?" I see him reach into his pocket and pull out a ticket pad.

I nod. "Absolutely, sir. You were right to pull me over."

Without warning, the detective invades my personal space. He leans his head into the car interior through my window. His bloodshot eyes and stubble jaw are the first things I notice. "What, no attempt to throw some money at the problem?"

I open my mouth but no sound comes out. "Excuse me?", I hear Mal say, but I don't turn at the outrage in her voice. There's something about this man that brings back the odd feelings I've experienced during the weekend. Like he is familiar to a strange life - one that I don't want and can't understand, but, nonetheless, belongs to me.

He grins, and I intuit that he knows exactly what I'm thinking, right down to the very last word. He leans in closer, so that I can smell the ring of tobacco around him. "You know what I'm talking about, don't you? It's not a new concept, is it, rich boy?"

A room whose walls are painted brown flashes from the recesses of my mind, the kind of room that swallows the fluorescent light overhead. It's cold, but I'm sweating.

"_I loved her!"_

"_What kind of a man are you?"_

Mal's hands are curled around my forearm. Which is suspended in mid air. "Arthur, what's wrong with you? He's a police officer!", she says in as low a tone as possible.

I turn to the detective again, and, in as calm a voice as I can manage, "Officer, we have a patient to tend to. Just give me my ticket."

He looks like he wants to harass me further, but in a few minutes he's walking back to his car and there's a piece of paper in my hand. Through the rearview window, I watch him detach the siren from the car roof and slide behind the steering wheel before shifting into gear. Passing us by, he gives me a salutatory gesture with the two of his fingers on his forehead. In a few moments, I too am back on the road. "Who was he? We should have asked for his badge and reported him!"

"Let it go, Mal. We'll run into jerks like that once or twice in our lifetime."

She twists in her seat. "Let it go? How can you say that? You were ready to hit the man seconds ago!"

I shrug. "What can I say? Heat of the moment."

We arrive at Thousand Oaks and find the parents of our patient sitting by her bedside. They look up as we approach. "This is a miracle!", exclaims the mother.

Mal smiles and turns to the patient. "We'd like to run some other tests on you today - mainly to see how much you remember and what you remember. That's also why we've asked your family to be here - sometimes the things that seem like a memory, aren't."

The young woman acknowledges Mal's words but directs her question at me. "Do you want me to try again to remember what happened before I woke up?"

I nod. "Just try your best."

She starts, slowly, as if standing on a tenuous edge and reaching towards something just beyond her grasp. "I remember going to a party. We started off drinking soda, but someone gave me a cup that was mixed with alcohol." She looks apologetically over at her mother. "I didn't stop drinking it after I realized what was in it."

"It's alright. Keep going", Mal says in a gentle and encouraging tone.

"After awhile, I stopped drinking. Mostly because my boyfriend kept telling me not to." Her face pinches in as she concentrates. "Things get a little bit fuzzy after that. I remember feeling buzzed as the party was winding down, but I don't remember how we figured out a way home. I must have been gotten in my car to drive home."

I ask, "Do you remember your boyfriend's name?"

She looks at me for a long while. "He's dead, isn't he."

Her father clears his throat. Reaches out to take her hand. "Honey, Lisa was at the party that night. She was with you most of the time. You didn't have a boyfriend then. You didn't meet any boy there."

It doesn't seem like the words get through to her. But then her jaw tightens. "No. That's a lie. I remember he was there." She turns back to me. "You know it's true. Tell them."

"Arthur?" I turn around and see my wife standing in the door frame. "I was told you were finishing up." Then she notices the patient; her mouth opens as a strong expression sweeps over her face. "You."

I step in between the two of them, facing my patient. "What was his name? Who drove your car home?"

My wife spins around me and I turn with the intention to stop her or follow her. But somehow I end up turning around and around and when I stop, I'm dizzy. Now they are both standing in front of me. Paige and Ariadne, side by side, holding hands as children do, staring calmly at me. Who are they? Who is my past and who is my future?

They don't say anything, but I know they are asking me for something. I am shaking my head, inexplicably angry. "I can't choose. I won't. I need to know the truth. Tell me."

I blink; suddenly, they're both wearing identical outfits. Almost everyone else but the three of us are gone. Paige says, "The truth is I don't want this for you. And I don't want to know what really happened."

Ariadne walks up to me, places her hand on one side of my face. "The truth is I'm really scared. I don't want to get hurt."

"The truth is, this is the happiest I've felt in a long time. Isn't it, Arthur?" This from Mal. She walks over to stand beside the other two women.

I rub a hand over my eyes. "This isn't why I'm here." I look around but the hypnosis has stilted my ability to control my surroundings. I can do this, I know I can do this. Fog and smoke roll in, out of nowhere, covering everything in a grey mist until I can't see anything. I call out my wife's name, but I hear no echo and I hear no response.

It's the salt air and waves that I notice immediately. The sun is sinking into the horizon, lighting the edge of this world on fire. I know right away which beach I'm standing on. In the distance, I see a lone figure, silhouetted against the twilight, drawing in the sand. She squints up as my shadow falls over her. "That's a good rendering of the hotel."

She shrugs as she drags a finger through the damp sand, forming a line. "Our mind never loses a memory." She slides a look at me from the corner of her eyes. "Even if we can't access most of it."

"You understand why I'm doing this, don't you?" I drop to my knees in front of her and place my hands on her shoulder while she continues to make shapes in the ground.

She finally stops. "I understand that you think it's important. But I don't understand why you feel this way."

"Why am I dreaming that we are married?"

She lifts her shoulder. "Why does anyone dream anything? It could mean everything, and, nothing." She laughs at my expression. "Now you know how others feel when you give them cryptic responses. It doesn't make what I said any more or less true, though. You have a theory, though. Why don't you tell me why?"

I run my hand over her hair. I say it even though I don't want to, but there is no point of hiding in here."Because I love you."

She breaks our eye contact. "Is that good or bad?"

"I don't know how to let go. I don't know if I'll ever be able to love anyone without associating it with guilt and shame. I want to be free of that. If I found out what happened, I might have a chance. We might have a chance."

She kisses me. It's as I remember it but even as I think it, she pulls free. I see the answer on her face before she vocalizes it. "I can't tell you."

"Can't? Or won't?" I push myself away, as anger surges through me. I stand at a distance, tense and counting.

She presses into my back, her arms winding around my waist. "Sometimes the answer you need is the answer you are given. Sometimes you must accept the silence."

"If you're a part of me, you should know better than to expect I could live with that answer."

Her hands cover mine. I feel her lips moving against the area of my back between my shoulder blades. In spite of what I know, there's a heaviness in my chest. It's a reality I can't ignore. She says, "I think we both know if that were really the case, we wouldn't be having this argument."

I disentangle myself from her hold - her face, her form, her whole being is too much for me right now. "You have a million choices; you can look like anyone, anything. Why do you have to come to me as her?"

She ignores my accusatory finger. Brushes it aside with a hand. "You came to me - you have been seeking this part of you for years. You dig and you dig and you dig, hoping to find something other than what is there. Aren't you tired? Haven't you repented enough?" She steps closer. "I am who I am because of who you are and how you feel."

I bow my head. "I don't know how to be any thing than what I am now. How do I stop?"

She smiles, just the way I remember it. "You just do."

"What about the line?"

She laughs. "Always with the questions. No wonder you're the point man. Arthur, stop looking for the line. The line is you and not you. It's twisted in your blood, it's the darkness in your memory. It's the reason why you love who you love, and you'll never be that person you think you remember you once were. Maybe you never were." She is looking at me as if I really should know this. "It's almost time for you to go."

There's the tinkling, faint sound of music in the background. "If I seek you out again, will you be here?"

She shrugs. "Who can say? But I am hoping you won't come back."

"Not even for peace of mind?"

Things around us are crumbling - light is swallowing up the sky, the ocean and the beach around us. She starts to blend into that light and when she is almost gone, I hear her say,"That's all we have ever wanted."

I shout her name, and try to grab onto her but it's futile. I swipe through empty air. In the distance, I see my life - our life. I watch it break off in chunks and crash into the evaporating ocean. For the first time, I feel the veil of dreams lifting. "Arthur Gibson, wake up. Wake up."

Hitomi looks concerned as I sit up and she checks my pulse. "How long have I been out?"

"Half an hour. After you fell into a hypnotic state, I followed your directions with your suitcase. I was worried; your body started to twitch and jerk the last five minutes. Your time was up by then but I couldn't wake you from the trance." She sinks back down on the floor and blows her bangs back. "You should have told me that would be a possibility."

"I would have, but I didn't know that would happen either. Don't look at me that way. Dream sharing is a frontier - this is how research is conducted."

"I won't help you do that again."

We stand up. "I won't do that again."

She turns back at me. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"To be honest, I don't know what I found."

"Did it help, at least?"

Did it help, indeed? I'm not sure whether I can give her the clear answer she's hoping for. I want to say yes. I want to say no. Neither fits. But help or not, whether I have found any truth or resolution, I know what I want. I can't lose any more days holding back. I suddenly have a purpose again and now I can barely contain myself from running at top speed towards it.

* * *

**AN:** "Bertie" is a shout out to The King's Speech, which I saw last week and absolutely loved. I can see Eames being a Bertie, anyway. Hope you enjoyed the chapter. I was stuck awhile trying to figure how to make it all work.


	9. What Happens After

**Chapter Nine: What Happens After**

_And so we remained till the red of the dawn began to fall through the snow gloom. I was desolate and afraid, and full of woe and terror. But when that beautiful sun began to climb the horizon life was to me again._

_- Bram Stoker _

Sometimes I wake in the night, soaked in sweat. My heart is racing and my fingers are clutching the sheets. I wake and the first thing I wonder is whether I'm still dreaming and where I am. I look around for the telltale signs - suitcase propped in the corner of the room, the single size coffee maker and the Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the doorknob. I should be used to my surroundings by now but it takes me a few minutes to absorb the slanted, wood-slatted ceiling which serves as extra hanging space for the framed posters of old French films. Or the balcony that can barely fit a person comfortably (or altogether safely) but has the most breathtaking view of Sacre Couer. During the summers, the doors are left open to let fresh air circulate throughout the flat; when I see the breeze tangling invisible fingers through the gauzy curtains, I realize where I am, where I have been for awhile.

I wake up, frightened and in the dark but I don't remember anything. Eames and Ariadne have a theory that once the somnacin runs its course and is gone from a person's system, that person will remember his dreams again. There's no real proof of this, but, Cobb tells me that he has begun to dream again, without any help. The first time this happened, he was sailing on an ocean. It was so deep and still and lacking in any waves that at first he believed it to be a lake. But it stretched on for miles, meeting the horizon at every direction. Around him swam fish of different sizes and shapes; they were made up of bright jewels and gems. Neither of us were embarrassed when he spoke of waking up to find his pillow wet with tears. I think he is hoping for the night when he'll be able to see Mal again. We have gone to visit him and the children all the way in Chicago but it's not very often - the desire of traveling seems to have flown away from me after I left Tokyo for the last time. I asked Dom if he experienced night sweats prior to regaining the ability to dream but he hadn't. Again, there's not enough research to prove what I'm going through is typical. I never thought I would get to this point, but at last, I have no interest in finding out.

When it happens, it happens the same way. I wake up, gasping for air, calling out a name. I swipe a hand across my forehead and down the side of my face. It comes away shining with cold perspiration. Then the light flickers on, flooding the apartment in a warm glow and the figure beside me stirs. Sometimes she cradles me like a mother does to a child, murmuring into my ear until my heart stops its wild staccato and my breath evens out. Sometimes she sings or hums a song, while she runs fingers through my hair, or helps me into a dry shirt. Sometimes she just lays a hand over mine until I can unclench to hold onto it. Whatever she does, she always wakes with me.

I admire her and I am in awe of her. She is the woman in my dreams, even though she doesn't like to hear me say that. She doesn't think she is capable of living up to the perfection constructed inside my head. This reminds me of Mal - not the version in my head, but Cobb's. He had once said that his was no match against the real Mal, his Mal. That she was a shade. I understood it before, but now, after all this, his words resonate with me.

Last week, on our way to the local patisserie for our morning baguette, she said to me in an offhand tone, "I think we should buy chocolate croissants and get married."

She had turned her face to look over at mine but I deliberately kept my eyes fixed ahead. In an equally casual manner, I responded with, "Ok, let's go."

The ensuing silence was almost enough to undo the bland expression I wore. "Ok, let's go?" The anger bubbling in her voice was clearly evident.

That was when I finally looked at her. "Chocolate croissants. Marriage. Ok. Let's go."

"Are you being serious here?"

The suspicion which marred the smoothness of her brow only served to make me want to rub my hands in glee. "Actually, yes. Weren't you?"

She peered into my eyes, and, I could see the cogs in her brain were working away furiously. I will always remember how she looked at that moment - the way that blush of hers slowly unfurled on her face, and how her lips curved upwards, against her will. She threw her arms around me. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I didn't want to scare you away. I wanted to be certain you were certain."

She makes a face, the kind I have seen before on others but on her, at least, never fails to thoroughly amuse me. "That's funny, coming from you. I wasn't the one running away from us."

I took her hand, pressed it against my mouth. "You - and your persistence - saved me." We didn't speak for a long while after that.

We both wanted to keep things small. A few weeks were all we needed before the ceremony, and that depended solely on the marriage solicitor's schedule. I wore a suit and she, a blue dress. Haru, by way of a high speed train, coincidentally came to visit from Oxford and ended up being our witness at the civil ceremony. It lasted no longer than fifteen minutes. He took a picture of us (after reluctantly conceding that there should be one picture of the bride and groom which didn't include the witness); we are standing in front of an impressive marble fountain nearby Hotel de Ville. The day is clear; our rings glint in the bright sunlight. I look at that photo of me, the unabashed grin on my face, the proud way my arms are around my wife and her arms are around me. I look into my face and I almost see the hopeful person I think I used to be.

I check in with Hitomi via telephone call once every few weeks. I can see why her practice is flourishing. She has expressed that my marriage is a step in the right direction. She is not the only one to say this.

We settle into a routine - she attends classes at university, while I volunteer around the city. I hadn't planned to do this, but after three weeks of inactivity, I realized I would never be a man of leisure. It was my wife who suggested I try the soup kitchens in the poorer neighborhoods. Now it has expanded to include delivering meals to the elderly, organizing food and clothing drives, and, visiting the sick at hospitals. My love, my wife - she continues to save me.

I start. "Paige."

There is the promise of a new day finding its way into the dimness of our flat. She turns at the crack in my voice and presses the length of her warm body against my side. "Shhh... It's only a dream. She's safe. We're all supposed to be where we are." Her voice is a sepia-colored photo, blurred at its edges.

I remember the day we met, the way I instantly took to the frank and obvious assessment she made of me. I remember our first kiss, so perfectly innocent yet so thoroughly flustering my heart still palpitates recalling that memory. I remember the day I went back to her and told her the truth, every shameful kernel. The way she held my hand and listened, her face serene even during the part about the cover up and the feeble resistance I offered in the wake of my parents' demands. The resulting, instantaneous regret for not having righted a wrong when opportunity presented itself. How these feelings pooled, banded into a wild herd of dark phantom horses, and, grew so large I could see nothing else, I could not escape them, I was helpless under their sharp hooves which tore at everything in me.

I remember her first words after I cast out all of this darkness. She had been looking down at our conjoined hands. "Maybe it's time you kissed me, Arthur." When she lifted her face, there was nothing there except a shining sweetness.

And how I did, oh how I did. That's when I let go. Just like that. I watched my relentless quest for an unobtainable truth spin from my grasp, a helium balloon in the sky. It floated away while we kissed - too much time existed between our kisses, I remember thinking as we both prolonged the contact - and somewhere, something whispered, Y_ou keep this up and you're not going to want to stop. _But it no longer seemed like a warning. It had become a promise. It - I - was weaving around her, enveloping her in.

I think about this, I relive this to remember. I need to remember because when I wake up with the darkness creeping up on me, I have to remember my reasons to keep moving forward, to press on, to make a choice.

I remember.

Fin.


End file.
